Impatiently, I glared at the police officer who stood in the middle of the intersection directing traffic. His faded blue, too-long-for-this-heat uniform was stained gray-blue under both arms and at his chest and back with sweat. The black hat that seemed to barely cling to his dripping head drooped wearily in front of his face, shielding his eyes from the piercing sun. His arms seemed to slowly wilt in the blazing sun as he directed cars left and right.
Feeling quite bad for the poor guy I turned away just as a bus lazily made its way to the stop at the corner. The blinding white bus seemed to be desperately trying to hold in the cool air that seeped through its closed doors and dissipated in the heat of the day. As the bus doors flew open, a gust of refreshing cold swept over the crowd waiting at the street corner, and a sigh of relief rose from them; however, the passengers on the bus had quite the opposite reaction.
Like gamblers leaving a casino with wallets dry as a desert, they melancholically sauntered down the steps and into the burning rays of the sun. I watched in sympathy as each person reluctantly left the air-conditioned sanctity of the bus, muttered some words of protest against the heat, and then stepped directly into the sun’s path. With their eyes squinting at the ruthlessness of the sunlight, they mindlessly wandered about the sidewalk. Each not sure if there was any place better than where they were, and wondering if finding a better place was worth it.
Turning back towards the wilting police officer, I noticed how heavy the air was. Filled with the overpowering smell of sweat that seemed to latch onto everyone, the distinct smell that was deodorant, and the faint, nostalgic scent of perfume that stood no chance against the potency of the others. ‘It smells like my mother,’ I blankly thought to myself, and I smiled.
Tilting my head up a tad I noticed Mrs. Murphy staring out of her window. She just stood there, smiling. No, not smiling. Laughing. She was laughing at us. Us poor souls that had to endure the scorching rays of the sun while she, all comfy-cozy in her air-conditioned apartment, mocked us. I never really liked Mrs. Murphy, always found her to be a bit stingy and old-fashioned, but today, I found her especially unbearable.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the officer signaled for us to cross. The tar on the street felt as if it was, in the slightest way, conforming to the soles of my feet. The raw smell of burning rubber came at me all at once as I lumbered past the rows of cars waiting impatiently on the boiling, obsidian asphalt.
As I turned the corner onto Sunset Blvd., I saw Mr. Carson’s black Labrador lying listlessly in a small patch of shade. “Buddy,” I called, but the only response I got was a half-hearted ear raise. ‘I guess the heat can get to dogs, too,’ I mumbled to myself as I leaned against the warm brick wall near Otto’s fruit stand. The blotches of shade here were more than enough to provide me with temporary relief from the sun’s harsh rays.
I peered down at my hands curiously. The multicolored awning that hung above the stand cast rainbow shadows across the sweat streaked palms of my hands and on my black and white Converses. I stood there for quite some time before the sickly sweet smell of hot fruit made my eyes water. I hurriedly wiped my hands down the sides of my sweatshirt and continued on my way, my arms swaying limply at my sides.
I somberly walked a few more blocks, occasionally glancing into the reflective windows of the shops, before arriving in front of an average-size house, painted light blue from spring and splashed with the dark, obscure shadows from the unwavering branches of an old oak tree. Around the corner from the fruit stand, past the seemingly endless queue of shop windows, and down the street, sixth house on the right. Yes, this was home.
Before entering the gate, I casually reached out and gathered the contents of the mailbox. I inspected the many brightly colored envelopes and small green-striped package with a red bow that I held in my hand. ‘It’s already been a year,’ I mumbled to myself before jostling the old latch until it gave way and pushed open the all-too-familiar rusty black gate. It creaked on its hinges, but I didn’t notice.
Feeling quite bad for the poor guy I turned away just as a bus lazily made its way to the stop at the corner. The blinding white bus seemed to be desperately trying to hold in the cool air that seeped through its closed doors and dissipated in the heat of the day. As the bus doors flew open, a gust of refreshing cold swept over the crowd waiting at the street corner, and a sigh of relief rose from them; however, the passengers on the bus had quite the opposite reaction.
Like gamblers leaving a casino with wallets dry as a desert, they melancholically sauntered down the steps and into the burning rays of the sun. I watched in sympathy as each person reluctantly left the air-conditioned sanctity of the bus, muttered some words of protest against the heat, and then stepped directly into the sun’s path. With their eyes squinting at the ruthlessness of the sunlight, they mindlessly wandered about the sidewalk. Each not sure if there was any place better than where they were, and wondering if finding a better place was worth it.
Turning back towards the wilting police officer, I noticed how heavy the air was. Filled with the overpowering smell of sweat that seemed to latch onto everyone, the distinct smell that was deodorant, and the faint, nostalgic scent of perfume that stood no chance against the potency of the others. ‘It smells like my mother,’ I blankly thought to myself, and I smiled.
Tilting my head up a tad I noticed Mrs. Murphy staring out of her window. She just stood there, smiling. No, not smiling. Laughing. She was laughing at us. Us poor souls that had to endure the scorching rays of the sun while she, all comfy-cozy in her air-conditioned apartment, mocked us. I never really liked Mrs. Murphy, always found her to be a bit stingy and old-fashioned, but today, I found her especially unbearable.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the officer signaled for us to cross. The tar on the street felt as if it was, in the slightest way, conforming to the soles of my feet. The raw smell of burning rubber came at me all at once as I lumbered past the rows of cars waiting impatiently on the boiling, obsidian asphalt.
As I turned the corner onto Sunset Blvd., I saw Mr. Carson’s black Labrador lying listlessly in a small patch of shade. “Buddy,” I called, but the only response I got was a half-hearted ear raise. ‘I guess the heat can get to dogs, too,’ I mumbled to myself as I leaned against the warm brick wall near Otto’s fruit stand. The blotches of shade here were more than enough to provide me with temporary relief from the sun’s harsh rays.
I peered down at my hands curiously. The multicolored awning that hung above the stand cast rainbow shadows across the sweat streaked palms of my hands and on my black and white Converses. I stood there for quite some time before the sickly sweet smell of hot fruit made my eyes water. I hurriedly wiped my hands down the sides of my sweatshirt and continued on my way, my arms swaying limply at my sides.
I somberly walked a few more blocks, occasionally glancing into the reflective windows of the shops, before arriving in front of an average-size house, painted light blue from spring and splashed with the dark, obscure shadows from the unwavering branches of an old oak tree. Around the corner from the fruit stand, past the seemingly endless queue of shop windows, and down the street, sixth house on the right. Yes, this was home.
Before entering the gate, I casually reached out and gathered the contents of the mailbox. I inspected the many brightly colored envelopes and small green-striped package with a red bow that I held in my hand. ‘It’s already been a year,’ I mumbled to myself before jostling the old latch until it gave way and pushed open the all-too-familiar rusty black gate. It creaked on its hinges, but I didn’t notice.
I stood there mid-step in the middle of the walk with the rusty black gate still slightly ajar, the contents of the mailbox gripped firmly in my hands. And I just stood there. I just stood there and stared at the barren front yard of this oh-so-lonesome light blue house with its forever-wallowing oak tree at its side. I slowly released the metal bars of the gate and its anguish-ridden scraping against the rusty old hinges rang clearly in my ears.
‘It’s the heat,’ I told myself. ‘It’s starting to get to me.’ I plopped myself down on the dusty front steps and laid my head in my lap. I could feel the unforgiving rays of the sun bearing down on the back of my neck. But I didn’t care. I retrieved the envelopes from the smoldering ground and fanned them out in my hand. I stared at all the brilliant colors that were presented before me. I glanced over at the solitary package that I had been careful not to touch and nudged it with my foot.
I chose an envelope at random: a calming deep-blue color. No, not random. This was her favorite color. I slid my finger beneath the flap, carefully separating seal from paper, and pulled from the thin paper barrier a brilliantly shimmering birthday card.
I nestled the card back into the envelope and lifted my face towards the sun, beads of sweat glistening on my forehead. My mother had always hated extreme heat. “It drives people mad. Nothing good ever comes from heat like this,” she would always say. I could still picture her, a thin, wisp of a woman with slightly exaggerated facial features, leaning against the black gate. An oversized blue bonnet, drooping at the sides, perched atop a curly head of hair.
I smiled at the thought and retrieved the small, gift-wrapped package. Holding it tenderly in my hands I began to inspect it. It was a little on the heavy side, I turned it topside down and heard a light thud as its contents shifted. ‘I wonder what it could be,’ I hollowly asked myself turning the box right side up and loosening the bright red bow. With the bow out of the way, I worked my way into the box. I let the bow gently drop to the ground as I revealed the package’s hidden item.
I stared in awe at the small object that was now resting in the palm of my hand. I turned it over and over and over again in my hand, unable to fully grasp what was actually in my possession. Hot tears began to roll down my sunburned cheeks. ‘You were right, mom,’ I whispered to myself. ‘The heat does bring out the worst in people.’ I sat there in silence clutching the small object in both hands. It was half-past noon on a Tuesday that was boiling over at 110 degrees and I was sitting motionless on the steps of an oh-so-lonely blue house with a forever-wallowing oak tree at its side letting my mind wander and soak in the heat.
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